SEPTEMBER 14, 2020 – My third memorable fifth-grade lesson was about battlefield courage. The lesson could be traced directly to the Civil War.
Background is in order.
My dad was a student of the Civil War. He’d read all of Bruce Catton’s books on the subject and owned the four-inch-thick, illustrated volume, Civil War, published by American Heritage. When I was in kindergarten, Dad took our family on a road trip through the Deep South and stopped at many Civil War sites. By example and direct instruction, Dad made sure I was well acquainted with “The War Between the States.”
By fourth grade I’d leafed through Civil War a thousand times. While paging through the toys section of the Sears catalogue, I found a full Civil War play outfit— rifle, revolver-with-holster, belt-with-bullet-case (with “US” on the outside), sword-with-scabbard, and best of all, a blue Union soldier’s cap—the kind with a visor and flat top that sloped toward the front. I happily paid most of my savings to buy what “had my name written all over it,” as Dad said when I showed him the catalogue picture.
The same day my order arrived, I found a “horse”—the springing limb of a downed tree in our back woods. With my Civil War cap and weaponry, I led my troops into never-ending but victorious battles.
Well into fifth grade, Mrs. Hilliard introduced the rest of my class to the Civil War. She made room for it a week ahead of Lincoln’s Birthday, February 12. After mentioning the Battle of Gettysburg and Lincoln’s famous speech, Mrs. Hilliard said she’d assign extra credit to anyone who could recite the speech—by memory—in front of the class. If the Sears Roebuck Union soldier’s outfit “had my name written all over it,” so did the speech. I memorized it eagerly—right side up and . . . upside down. Dad said, “You’ll do just fine.”
On Lincoln’s Birthday, Mrs. Hilliard asked if anyone “was ready to earn extra credit.” I raised my hand—I couldn’t wait to impress the most esteemed teacher at Franklin Elementary School. As I raced to the front of the class, I wished I’d brought my Civil War outfit. (In retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t.)
“Four score and seven years ago . . .” I started in. But then a bad case of nerves attacked. By the time I reached “We have come to a portion of that field . . .” I was in desperate need of air. To catch my breath, I feigned a memory slip, whereupon Mrs. Hilliard gave me a cue. I was crushed. I’d wanted her to know I’d memorized the speech so well I could recite it while standing on my head (which I’d done at home), but now she’d think I didn’t know it well enough for extra credit.
What to do?
What every brave soldier does. I took a deep breath, got back on my horse and charged to victory—and a roomful of applause . . . led by Mrs. Hilliard.
Lesson learned.
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
